


Summer in the City

by Lasgalendil



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Asthmatic Steve Rogers, Awkward Sexual Situations, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Boys Kissing, Brooklyn, Catholic Steve Rogers, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Gay Bucky Barnes, Great Depression, Hand Jobs, Jewish Bucky Barnes, Kissing, Light Petting, M/M, Medical Conditions, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, PWP, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sexual Dysfunction, Sexual Humor, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-03-20 16:12:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18996076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasgalendil/pseuds/Lasgalendil
Summary: It’s summertime again, and maybe Steve's starting to stare a little...





	1. look

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains romance and sexual content between two consenting minors.

It’s summer, 1929, and Steve Rogers is stuck inside doing homework. He has to catch up by August, or the school board’ll make him repeat the year. The window’s open but the air’s stale. Outside, the sun’s shining, and indoors in Brooklyn has turned as hot and humid as the Devil’s asshole, least that’s what Buck said. Steve said Buck was going to Hell, but Buck told him Jews didn’t have a concrete concept of hell or even an afterlife, so sucks to him _and_ the Devil, and that was that.

“I need air,” Buck complains from the floor. His shirt and shoes are off, and he’s sprawled out with his feet up on the bed. “Or an egg cream.”

“You don’t gotta be in here with me, Buck.”

Buck snorts. “Where else’d I be?”

Down the block, the Roths and McOwens are playing in the fire hydrant. Steve nods out the window. “Outside.”

“Nah. I’m good, pal,” Buck gives him an upside down grin. “Besides, I’m not gonna leave my best guy.”

“I’m never gonna get this homework done,” Steve sighs.

“Not like that, you ain’t. C’mere. I’ll read it to ya.”

Steve glares from his perch on the bed. “I can read.”

“I know, pal. But you squint something awful. I’ll read it, and you can write, so we’ll answer the questions in half the time!”

“Fine,” Steve agrees. He hates when Buck’s right. “But you come up here, then. I ain’t moving.”

“Geez, Rogers. For such a little guy you’re a big pain in my ass.”

“You’re a giant pain in my ass.”

“You’re the giant-er pain in my ass.”

“You’re the giant-est pain in the ass, ever.”

Buck laughs and clamors up onto the bed, so Steve wins that argument.

They’re hot, and sticky, and shirtless, and if Steve notices the gleam of sunlight off the new muscles in Buck’s chest and arms, well, it’s like Michelangelo’s David or one of those sculptures at the Met. It’s like those images of St. Sebastian in ma’s Book of Saints. Steve just likes to look, is all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jewish beliefs about the existence of afterlife are pretty diverse!  
> This is an article from a Conservative organization regarding just some many of the concepts (bear in mind the source may tend towards Conservative Judaism bias, but I think they do a good job presenting multiple view points objectively):  
> https://www.myjewishlearning.com/article/heaven-and-hell-in-jewish-tradition/
> 
> Michelangelo: a good source on twink and daddy anatomy, but has clearly never seen a naked woman in his life. A FUCKING TERRIBLE SOURCE on anything Jewish: https://www.jstor.org/stable/42944790?read-now=1&seq=1#page_scan_tab_contents
> 
> St. Sebastian: you would NOT BELIEVE HOW NAKED THIS GUY IS. Shout out to spitandvinegar's Ain't No Grave (Can Keep My Body Down) for introducing me to this Catholic and dare I say gay icon!  
> http://the-toast.net/2015/06/17/the-martyrdom-of-saint-sebastian-in-ascending-order-of-sexiness-and-descending-order-of-actual-martyring/


	2. lips

It’s summer, 1930, and they’re sitting in the window, smoking cigarettes real quiet like. The girls from the block are out on their bicycles, and red-headed Dottie O’Reilly’s holding hands with Jimmy Flannigan. If they’re real lucky, maybe they’ll sneak into the alley below and make time. He and Buck like to watch, wait until someone’s got their hands where they shouldn’t be—down a shirt, up a skirt, in someone’s pants--then yell “I’ll tell your ma!” at the unsuspecting suitors.

Not today, though. Steve’s lost in thought. “You ever kiss a girl?” he wonders.

Buck doesn’t answer, just scratches the back of his neck, all sheepish.

It hurts, a bit. Buck tells him everything. “You did, didn’t you?”

“Once,” Buck says. “At my Bar Mitzvah.”

“What was it like?”

“I dunno, kinda slimy?”

Steve frowns. “Maybe you didn’t do it right.”

Buck gapes at him. “I did too!”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

Down in the alley, Dottie and Jimmy startle at the noise and run. She’d let him put her hands on her chest. “And it was just getting to the good part, too,” Buck rues.

“If you did it right, you wouldn’t say it was slimy,” Steve insists, tucking a mop of his sweaty fringe back from his forehead.

“How would you even know?” Buck crosses his arms. “Ain’t like you never kissed no one!”

And that’s it. Steven Grant Rogers has never lost an argument in his life. He’s never been a coward, neither, so Steve screws up his face, and Buck has that look like he knows what’s coming, puts his fists up all ready to fight. But Steve just grabs him by his suspenders and hauls him in for a big wet one. Right on the kisser.

…At least, that’s what Steve’d been aiming for. But he’s got myopia and astigmatism in addition to being color blind, so he might’ve just broke Buck’s nose.

But Buck doesn’t seem too perturbed by it. “S-steve?” he says, eyes gone all mooney.

“See?” Steve says, and shoves Buck away. “It’s not slimy.”

It’s real quiet. And real awkward. Steve opens a sketch book and pretends to study it, just so he don’t have to look at Buck all gawping like that.

“Hey, Stevie,” Buck finally says.

“What?”

“You—if you wanna—do you wanna?” Buck scuffs the floor with his toe, can’t meet his eyes. “You know. Practice kissin’ again?”

“No,” Steve says.

“Okay,” Buck swallows, looks like he’s just got slapped.

Steve slams the sketchbook shut, stalks forward and tugs Buck down by the shirt collar. “Who’s practicing?” And Buck? Buck just grins like the idiot he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early asthma medications:
> 
> https://www.australianpharmacist.com.au/the-original-puffer-2/  
> https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2844275/
> 
> Candy brands like Reese's and Hershey's have been around for like fucking forever. Here's an article about different sweets and when they were invented/existed in history:   
> https://www.candyfavorites.com/shop/history-american-candy.php


	3. hands

It’s summer, 1931, and they’re friends, is all. Friends who kiss and cuddle and hold hands and maybe take their roughhousing and tickling a little too far. So he knows the difference between the soft skin on Buck’s belly and the rougher, freckled stuff on his neck and shoulders. He knows what the inside of Buck’s mouth tastes like. Knows if he pulls Buck’s hair a bit it’ll make him hiss. Knows if he touches Buck’s face when he puts his mouth on him, Buck goes all gooey and melts like a Reese cup. Steve knows it isn’t—

Steve frowns. He knows it ain’t _wrong_ , is all. But deep down he knows it ain’t something they can let on about, neither. Not even with his ma.

So they’re friends. Friends who kiss and cuddle and sit in each other’s laps until Buck gets real uncomfortable and goes off to take care of things down there in the stiffy department. It’s not like they’ve had sex, or anything. Steve’s ashamed of his shrunken little body, as misshapen as Rodin’s Adam, and Buck’s never pressed for nothing more. Don’t mean Steve ain’t curious. Don’t mean when he touches himself and tries to stay hard it ain’t Buck’s chest and broad shoulders he thinks of, all taut and lean from the docks.

They’re laying in bed, lazing a Sunday afternoon away, Buck reading comics and Steve concentrating on his art. “You ever done it?” Buck asks him idly. He doesn’t even look up from _Tin Tin_.

“Done what?” Steve argues.

“You know,” Buck says. “ _It_. But you’ve done it, right? I know you’ve done it.”

Steve gets all angry, and he kind of hates Buck for it. “Who would I do it with,” he snaps, and goes back to his lettering. If he touches up the signs for the grocer, and writes out the week’s prices, then he gets to take home some fruit that’s bruised, vegetables that’re broken, or some tripe or tongue or meat going bad. It ain’t much, but it’s something Steve can do.

“No, I mean…Jerk off? Rub one out?”

“What?!” Steve drops his paintbrush.

 “Polish your knob? Do the five finger Mary?” Buck’s sniggering. “Celebrate palm Sunday?”

Steve throws a pillow at him. “Of course I’ve done it!”

“So you’ve come.”

Steve doesn’t say anything. His silence says it all.

“Not even once?” Buck blinks and sits up. “Not even, I dunno, when you’re sleeping?”

“I clean my sheets just as much as you do,” Steve scoffs.

“But you ain’t come when you’re awake yet.”

“No,” Steve says miserably. It’s like the asthma and the anemia and the arrhythmia and scoliosis all gang up on him. He can’t breathe, he can’t stay hard, his heart goes all funny, and he just can’t get comfortable.  “What’s it like?”

“I dunno,” Buck shrugs, and screws up his face. “It’s like, it feels good, and your balls kinda squeeze, then your dick throws up.”

“It does not!”

“It does too!”

“Prove it.” Steve insists.

Buck snorts. “What, I’m s’posed to get my dick out and prove it to ya?”

Steve slips out of his suspenders, stands and shucks down his pants. Buck’s eyes go wide.

“What?” Steve’s too angry to be embarrassed. “Ain’t like you never seen a dick before. Or touched one, neither.”

“Yeah,” Buck swallows, still staring at Steve’s naked thighs and the shape of him in his underwear. “But not from this angle.”

Steve rolls his eyes. Climbs back into bed and up into Buck’s lap, head laid back on Buck’s shoulder like he’s done for breathing a hundred thousand times or more. “Better?”

“Y-yeah,” Buck says, breath hot on the back of his neck.

They’re both sticky and kinda smelly, but they’ve been sweating all day so Buck’s palms are wet and warm as they trace down his belly. One hand ghosts beneath his waistband, closes around Steve and gives a little tug, and Oh, God, it’s _him_. It’s _Buck_. It’s nothing, nothing like laying alone at night trying to do this on his own. There’s the strong arms around him, the familiar scent of Buck, all sweat and gasoline and cigarettes, the raspy, shucking sound of Buck’s palm against his skin, the wet hot feel of Buck’s lips against his shoulder, his ear, his neck. Steve groans, starts to thrust up into Buck’s hand with every stroke, feels himself swell, achingly hard now, a trickle of something leak from his dick. Buck gathers it in his palm, spreads it up and down with each steady pull of his wrist. There’s something heavy at the base of Steve’s spine, a different, duller pain than he’s ever felt before, fire coiling in his belly and balls, legs splayed, trembling.

And just—just—when Buck’s sucking a bruise into his collar, jerking him off brutally, and Steve thinks _yes, yes, this is it this has to be it!_ Steve’s heart pounds against his ribs, and his lungs seize up.

His whole body spasms, but Buck’s oblivious and just keeps mauling him. Steve sends an elbow into his ribs

“Shit!” Buck cries, “Shit!” and goes diving for his epinephrine. The machine is ugly and bulky, but Buck’s hands are steady and sure as he straps on the mask. It’s nothing they ain’t done a thousand times before…but before Steve had pants on, didn’t know the feel of his best friend’s hand around his dick, how badly he’d wanted it, how much he hated his stupid, broken body for taking this away from him. Buck sits next to him and rubs his back, crooning at him, tells him to _breathe, breathe, Stevie_ , and if Steve weren’t so scared, he’d be so angry he could spit.

The treatment lasts a coupla minutes. When the medicine’s gone, Steve wrenches off the mask. Buck’s still in his clothes looking all handsome and perfect, and Steve looks ridiculous with his knobbly knees and pale, bruised thighs in nothing but his soaked underwear and a too-big shirt.

“You need one of your cigarettes?” Buck offers, and hands him the pack of Potter’s.

 “You didn’t finish,” Steve takes one and lights up begrudgingly. “ _I_ didn’t finish.”

“You didn’t— _y_ ou almost _died!_ ” Buck protests.

Steve wipes his eyes. He knows it ain’t Buck’s fault, but he’s not gonna let Buck see him cry. “Yeah, well, maybe you’re doin’ it wrong.”

“Yeah? Maybe you got asthma,” Buck argues, flopping back on the bed. “I ain’t doing it wrong. Works for me.”

“Show me,” Steve insists. And for a second, he doesn’t think Buck will. But Buck stares up at him through his lashes and touches himself through his pants.

“Take ‘em off,” Steve orders, mouth going dry.

Buck unbuttons them.

“All the way off.” Steve repeats, and pushes the suspenders from his shoulders. Buck lifts his hips, wriggles out of his pants, flushing furiously as he fumbles with his underwear. But finally his dick is out, pink and straining in a bed of dark curls, and Buck takes himself in hand, eyes darkening at the touch.

“Move your hand,” Steve says. And Buck does. Jesus, Buck does. And he’s gorgeous like that, cock full and flushed up against his pale hand, fingers curled in a pumping fist, staring up at Steve the whole damn time. He plants his feet, lifts his hips a little, fucks up into his hand, faster and faster. He makes some pretty stupid faces, but Steve’s a little too awed to care.

Steve smokes and watches, and on the whole feels pretty useless. But Buck reaches out his other hand, grabs Steve’s and twines their fingers together before he comes.

When Buck comes down from cloud nine he’s covered in spunk and boneless against the sheet, looking up at Steve like he’d hung the moon. “Well, how about that.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, nodding to the mess Buck’s made of himself. “How about you wash your shirt.”

Buck squawks, and wrestles him down for a kiss.


	4. suck

It’s summer, 1932, and Steve’s still stuck doing homework. He’s gotta catch up by July, or the schoolboard won’t let him start high school. He’s made it this far colorblind and half deaf, so like hell is he gonna miss out high school because of his shit lungs, scarlet fever, and scoliosis. The tenement air is too hot to breathe, and Steve can see heat shimmers rising from the brick street below. They sit out on the fire escape like they used to do when they were kids, after Steve had finally outgrown his window crib. Buck’s his constant companion through the humidity and the heat, grumbling about the metal stairs roasting his ass and tying up a blanket over their heads to keep off the worst of it.

Steve’s sweating over his arithmetic workbook, while Buck’s frowning at _Tom Swift and His Electric Rifle_. He keeps picking it up, playing with the pages, then slamming it down in disgust again.

“Ya wanna cut it out?” Steve asks.

“I don’t like it,” Buck decides, for the hundreth time that day.

Steve sighs. “Then stop reading it, ya lummox.”

“But I _do_ like it,” Buck covers his face and groans. “Why’s Victor Appleton gotta be such a fuckin’ racist, anyhow?”

“ _Tin Tin’s_ no better,” Steve says.

“Shaddup, Rogers,” Buck grumps. “You spoil everything.”

“You think I’m bad, try geometry,” Steve tells him.

“Nope,” Buck pops the “p” sound, and lays back with his hands laced behind his head. “When am I gonna use geometry, Rogers. Christ.”

“If you’re not gonna help, you could at least shut up.”

Buck whines. Rolls over. Puts his face right in Steve’s lap. And that’s just _swell_. Steve’s got enough distractions as it is, what with the humidity and sweat, the traffic sounds, and hollering kids playing stickball down in the street.

It lasts about thirty seconds before Buck’s bugging him again. “Hey,” Buck says, tugging on his pants.“Wanna do something with you.”

Steve swats him off. “Yeah, well, I wanna do something with you, too. But I got homework, so it ain’t gonna happen.”

“Alright,” Buck pouts. “Later then.”

“I’m busy,” Steve says, because he’s got math homework to finish, and he’s got to get these menus done and deliver them to the Rav’s bakery by tonight if he wants dinner. Day old pastries are better than a lotta things, and a whole heckuva lot better than nothing. Everyone else in Brooklyn’s out swimming and sunning and kissing on their sweethearts, but Steve Rogers is stuck working one way or another. He’s so damn sick of being sick all the time.

“C’mon, Stevie,” Buck wheedles.

“I’m busy,” Steve plonks his book and paper down on Buck’s head. While he’s being a brat, he might as well make himself useful.  “I don’t got time to put my hands all over you.”

 “Yeah, well, you ain’t gonna have to.” Buck’s voice is all muffled.

Steve snorts. “Like you can get off without me touching you.”

“Nah, pal, I got something better,” Buck promises. “I’m gonna suck your dick. You…I dunno. Just sit there and say the rosary or something.” Steve stabs Buck’s hand with his pencil.

“Ow! You sonuva-- _mensch!”_ Buck shakes his hand out, then puts it in his mouth.

“That’s not really an insult, you know,” Steve argues.

“Yeah, well, Sarah Rogers ain’t the one I’m insulting,” Buck grumps.

Steve shuts his arithmetic book. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Well, you sucking my dick or not?”

Buck tosses him inside. Steve squeals and bounces twice on the bed. Buck’s got the window drawn and the curtains pulled before Steve can even open his mouth to shout at him, and then he’s crawling over Steve and kissing him, kissing him, kissing him until Steve’s gone and forgotten what he was gonna shout about. Buck’s leaving warm, wet, open-mouthed kisses all down Steve’s neck and jaw and collar bone, hands slipping up his sides, stroking, petting, working all frantic at buttons and suspenders alike.

Buck shoves Steve’s shirt up to his shoulders, splaying his hands all up and down Steve’s belly, kissing and licking from his sternum to his waistband and Steve’s all flushed pink in pleasure. It's all swell and good until Steve’s pants are off, then Buck and Steve and God Almighty and everyone and their mother can see just how soft he still is.

But Buck doesn’t care. “Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he says, and puts his face right down there, nuzzling at Steve through his underwear.

“You don’t mind?” Steve asks, trying to sit up a bit on his elbows. But it hurts his back too much.

“Nah,” Buck says. “Don’t care if you’re hard or not, so long as you’re mine.”

“You’re a sap,” Steve chokes, ‘cause he’s about to get his dick sucked for the first time and he isn’t going to cry about it.

“Least I’m not a punk,” Buck says pointedly, then lowers his face down and licks a stripe up Steve’s underwear. Steve groans, then clamps a hand over his mouth ‘cause Jesus fucking Christ that sounded stupid, but Buck just grins, and peels Steve’s underwear down and suddenly he’s scrawny and sticky and laying in bed in a pool of his own sweat and Buck’s all handsome and perfect and clothed and Steve’s got his half-hard dick hanging out with his best friend’s face right there and Steve’s never felt more naked in his life.

For a while Buck just lays there like an idiot, staring at Steve’s cock like Christmas came early.

“Well?” Steve insists. “You sucking my dick or not?”

“Gimme a moment,” Buck breathes. “I ain’t exactly seen one up close before.”

“Do you even know how this works?” Steve huffs.

“I know how it works!” Buck says, and gets busy. He’s got his face nestled in the hollow of Steve’s hip bones, and he’s just snuffling slowly. It takes everything Steve’s got not to knee him ‘cause his eyelashes are all tickly. Then Steve jerks ‘cause Buck’s got a hand on his balls, but after the shock of it it’s not so bad. He ain’t used to being touched there, is all. Buck’s kissing the silky soft skin of Steve’s thigh now, running fingers through the thatch of hair around Steve’s dick, and all Steve can see’s the top of his head.

Steve grunts. Sits up on his elbows. His shoulders and his spine scream in protest but he’s about to get his dick sucked for the first time so he’s going to fucking watch.

“It smell bad or something?” Steve demands, ‘cause Buck’s sure taking his sweet fucking time.

“Nah,” Buck looks up and him, all stupid, like being face deep in Steve’s pubic hair’s the best thing he’s ever smelt. “I dunno. Kinda bready?”

Buck licks him, just a bit. It’s warm and wet and _Jesus._ Steve goes more than a little cross-eyed. He feels his heart beat in his ears and his chest and his cock and he swears he’s seen the face of God...and if God Almighty looks a lot like Bucky Barnes with his mouth around Steve’s limp dick, then Hail Mary, Mother of God, forget art school. Steve’s gonna be a fucking _priest_.

“What’s it taste like?” Steve asks, his mouth gone all dry.

 “Like skin,” Buck laughs. “You ain’t exactly hot fudge pudding cake here, pal.”

“Do it again,” Steve orders, because Christ that’s good.

Buck’s not really sure what he’s doing, and Steve don’t know either, but the feel of Buck’s mouth on him is enough, even if he’s just kissing at Steve’s balls, the base of his cock, nibbling and nosing along the shaft, leaving gentle licks around the head. It’s good even when Buck gets too ambitious has to pull off and cough a little when he chokes himself trying to swallow down too far.

It’s nice, Steve thinks, but it’s kinda useless. It’s not like he’s gonna be able to return the favor. But Buck looks like he’s having the time of his life down there, even if his eyes are watering and his chin’s all drool-soaked. Buck’s jaw’s gotta ache by now, but he just shakes his head viciously when Steve tries to coax him off, so Steve don’t think he’ll complain. Then Buck does nothing he ain’t been doing for the last five minutes or so but Steve’s seeing stars and his hips snap up all on their own and Steve’s fired off and Buck’s coughing and choking and Steve’s horrified, didn’t think that could happen, he’s never even come before, wasn’t even that  _hard_ \--

Steve’s laying in bed, gasping for air and Buck’s spitting out his spunk and Steve’s sick and scared and ashamed. But Buck just grabs his Devilbiss and Asthma Nephrine, brings it to Steve’s lips and holds it there while Steve breathes. Steve slips his fingers through Buck’s and they just lay there petting and panting. Steve knows he’s gotta be a mess. And Buck? Buck looks like the cat who got the canary. He’s got this insufferably smug look on his stupid face, so when Steve catches his breath he says, “Gonna make you suck dick more often, Buck.”

 “That good, huh?”

Steve shakes his head. “It’s the only way to make you shut up.” Then they’re both laughing until they’re crying because he _came_ , Christ, he finally came and he came all over Buck’s face and throat and Buck’s a fucking mess looking like Steve’s dick threw up all over him but Buck’s got this look in his eyes like Steve’s dick hung the moon. So if Buck’s all sappy and calling him sweet-heart and baby doll and kissing all over him while he jerks himself off and spoons him all sweet-like after, then Steve don’t even care.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Penicillin wasn’t discovered until 1929, and not commercially available for civilian use until 1942. Cases of scarlet fever had no treatment, and could and often did lead to long term complications like rheumatic fever.
> 
> https://www.cdc.gov/groupastrep/diseases-public/scarlet-fever.html
> 
> https://www.cdc.gov/groupastrep/diseases-public/rheumatic-fever.html
> 
> https://www.medicalnewstoday.com/articles/216798.php
> 
> Shout out to Sena who’s Sparked Up Like a Book of Matches has an awesome intro with Steve explaining his childhood illnesses as complications of rheumatic fever!
> 
> Thomas Swift and His Electric Rifle  
> 1911 YA novel known for its science fiction gadgets and grossly stereotyped depictions of poc.  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tom_Swift
> 
> Thomas A. Swift’s Electric Rifle, or TASER, is a cult favorite of American Police forces, and oh, look, it’s DEFINITELY FUCKING RACIST.  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Taser
> 
> hot fudge pudding cake recipe, circa 1934
> 
> https://writes4food.com/2012/11/hot-fudge-pudding-cake-recipe/?doing_wp_cron=1543634048.4872779846191406250000


End file.
